


hypothetical

by Did



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pastfic, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, a series of sad conversations that never happened, misuse of future vision
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-08-28 03:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16716200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Did/pseuds/Did
Summary: Zul considers the possibilities.





	1. analytical

The first time Zul uses the Sight in this particular manner, he is seventeen and optimistic.

He and Prince Rastakhan are perched on a ledge of the Great Pyramid that overlooks Zanchul, watching the setting sun paint the western mountains red. Zul’s studies have been left to gather dust in his quarters. Prophet Tal will not be pleased, but Zul cannot bring himself to care - not when the light is reflecting off of Rastakhan’s tusks in such an exquisitely distracting way.

“I thought she was interested,” says Rastakhan, gazing into the distance in a way that he probably thinks makes him look wistfully handsome. The effect is somewhat diminished by the large blue bruise darkening one of his cheeks. “But she said she is too humble to ever consider marrying royalty.”

“And then?”

“I told her I was not proposing marriage. And then she slapped me.

...you need not laugh so _hard_ , Zul!”

Zul reflexively ducks away as Rastakhan tries to cuff him upside the head. He knows from painful experience that even an offhand swat from Rastakhan is likely to bruise deeply.

“My apologies, your highness.” cackles Zul, bowing his head in a mockery of obeisance. “How inconvenient it must be, that not every serving girl jumps into your lap as soon as you snap your fingers.”

“You are one to talk, parchment-pusher! As if you have ever seen a naked girl who wasn’t drawn on a scroll.”

“You do not know that.” replies Zul primly, choosing to omit the fact that Zul’s own interests do not run in that _particular_ direction. “We apprentices be gettin’ up to all sorts of things down there in the dark.”

“And organizing all those dusty tomes gets ya good and hot, eh?” Rastakhan laughs. He catches Zul by the shoulders and shakes him like a rabbit. Zul bats his hands away, ignoring the way Rastakhan’s strong fingers digging into his trapezius muscle made every hair on his body stand up at once.

“Lots o’ nice, secluded corners in the library.” Zul continues with supreme dignity. Rastakhan does not come within fifty feet of a book or scroll unless forced to do so, so it’s a safe exaggeration to make. It suddenly seems very important that Rastakhan not think of him as _inexperienced_.

Rastakhan does not appear particularly impressed.

“Ugh. I should tell old Tal to let you have a room of your own, if sharing a room with the other apprentices got you so pent up you’re gettin’ down to business behind the bookshelves.” says Rastakhan, speaking with the casual disdain of a troll who has never had to share a single thing in his life.

“As much as I would love to hear _that_ conversation, I must ask that you do not.”

Zul would, in fact, dearly appreciate a room of his own. While he has never been particularly fussy about privacy, he is, after all, a healthy young troll. There are _some_ things he would rather not share with his fellow acolytes.

He also knows it will likely be many years before that wish is granted, even if he is the most promising seer of his generation.

The conversation lapses into a comfortable silence, unbroken but for the sound of the wind whistling against the pyramid’s walls. Somewhere in the distance a raptor screeches.

Zul considers his next course of action very, very carefully.

Zul has always been possessed of an analytical mind. He does not take risks without first considering them from every angle, like a saurid tilting its head this way and that before snatching up a morsel.

This, somehow, feels like the riskiest thing he has ever considered doing.

Zul looks inward, allowing the many-forked paths of the future to bloom in his mind’s eye. He chooses carefully, shifts his awareness a little to the left, and -

_\- leans close to Rastakhan, his lips nearly brushing the rim of Rastakhan’s ear._

_“You know,” he murmurs, his words rumbling low in a way that he hopes sounds enticing. Zul is well aware that his exceptionally deep voice is one of his few attractive qualities. “I could always use your room.”_

_Rastakhan tenses. Zul realizes immediately that he has made a mistake._

_“Zul!” Rastakhan exclaims. He is laughing, but with a hint of reproach. He looks nervous. “I did not know you had designs on the throne!”_

_Zul freezes. His throat tightens with humiliation. Rastakhan shifts away a little too quickly, claps him on the back a little too heartily._

_“Maybe I’ll talk to old Tal about a new room for you after all, eh?”_

Zul recoils from the vision as though burned. His sudden wave of anxiety is so palpable that Rastakhan startles and stares at him.

“Zul? What is the matter?”

It occurs to Zul that the spirits have always been most fond of showing him visions of disaster.

“...it be nothing, your highness.”


	2. hierarchical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zul supervises the king's wedding.

The second time Zul uses the Sight in this manner, he is twenty-four and exhausted.

No expense has been spared in the preparation of this event. The gilded walls of the Great Pyramid gleam under a fresh layer of polish, flickering in the torchlight and pulsing with a lively drumbeat that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The palace’s many halls and balconies teem with trolls clad in formal silks and feathers and sometimes nothing at all, all laughing and dancing and working themselves into a state of raucous drunkenness while flocks of harried-looking servants scramble to attend to their needs.

A fleet of long banquet tables groan under a veritable menagerie of delicacies: saurids roasted whole and dressed in their own colorful feathers, stacks of heavy bruto steaks atop golden platters requiring the strength of three trolls to lift, paper-thin filets of tender raw u’taka. A spitted direhorn rotates slowly over a bed of coals; passing trolls occasionally pierce its crisp skin with the point of a knife or spear, allowing its fragrant juices to pour into their waiting bowls and plates. There are mountains of steamed rice and glazed fruit, rivers of fine palm wine and imported rum.

If there’s one thing the Zandalari know how to do well, it’s _excess._ It’s not every day, after all, that the king is married.

Zul hates all of it.

Rastakhan’s wedding day is the culmination of what seems like an eternity of preparation. Zul has spent the past month ruthlessly and systematically thwarting every possible attempt to disrupt it. He has relived this very scene countless times, cataloguing every assassination attempt, every altercation, every freak accident with a meticulous eye. He has rescheduled the wedding three times and revised its guest list five times. He has arranged for a number of troublesome nobles to be ill or injured, discouraging the attendance of certain trolls too high-blooded to be snubbed outright.

He has also become utterly desensitized to the sight of his dearest friend being stabbed, poisoned, blasted, and, on one memorable occasion, grabbed and carried off by a rogue pterrordax. (Zul ordered that particular beast put down three days ago, and its treasonous handler quietly executed.)

It’s enough to make him miss Prophet Tal. Zul feels a belated twinge of sympathy for the old troll’s many long years of idiot-proofing royal parties. It’s like being trapped in endless daily rehearsals for a play he despises.

Zul, therefore, considers it his given right to spend the entire evening brooding over his glass of gin and glowering at anyone who so much as glances in his direction. The splintered pile of ribs and femurs on the table in front of him stand in mute testament to his mood. Every time his frustration starts to rise, he picks up a bone and cracks it between his molars.

_Crack._

He watches Rastakhan wade through the noisy crowd of revelers, most of them too addled with drink to do more than make sloppy attempts at the genuflections due to his station. Some of them even dare touch him, brushing unworthy hands against the king’s royal raiment as though they hope it might grant them luck. A particularly bold noble tries to pluck a feather from Rastakhan’s pauldron. Zolani and Habutu’s twin glares force him back.

_Crack._

He observes as Rastakhan holds court among the partygoers with his new queen on his arm, laughing and radiant. His ceremonial headdress sits slightly askew. Zul’s hands itch to nudge it back into place. They clench when the king’s wife does so in his stead.

_Crack._

Queen Talanji is a daughter of high nobility and a scholar of some note. She is clever and lovely and utterly worthy of the enraptured expression currently occupying Rastakhan’s face. Zul can find nothing at all objectionable about her.

_SNAP._

There is, Zul reflects, an upside to his new duties as Royal Prophet. He has been too distracted by this month’s preparations to dwell on-

“Zul!” booms Rastakhan. “Are you enjoying the party?”

The crowd parts like water around the king as he makes his way to where Zul is seated, his bodyguards casually knocking aside a few trolls too slow or inobservant to clear his path. The queen follows in his wake at a more sedate pace.

Zul says nothing. He does not need to. Rastakhan is more than happy to continue without his input.

“Everything has gone off without a hitch! Looks like all your worrying was for nothing, eh?”

Zul’s teeth scrape loudly against the raptor femur currently clenched in his jaws. Rastakhan’s brows lift. “You will give yourself a toothache doing that.”

“I am sure the Prophet has been hard at work keeping us all safe.” Queen Talanji admonishes gently, regarding Zul with a warm expression. “It is an honor to finally meet you, Prophet Zul.”

“Queen Talanji.” says Zul, setting the bone aside and bowing his head. He wonders if he should stand, as etiquette demands. In a small act of defiance, he does not. It has been many years since he and Rastakhan have stood on ceremony. He cannot quite bring himself to return to formality just yet.

To his surprise, Queen Talanji claims the chair next to Zul’s. She pats the chair on his other side; Rastakhan obediently takes a seat, helping himself to a bone that Zul has not yet stripped of its marrow.

“I have been eager to speak with you, Honored Prophet. Perhaps now that the wedding preparations are complete you will not be so elusive!”

“Perhaps.” Zul doubts it. Zul is very skilled at making himself inaccessible to those he does not wish to be bothered by.

The queen continues smiling, undeterred by Zul’s chilly demeanor. She and Rastakhan have that in common. “I have been curious to hear your opinions on the subject of spatio-temporal dynamics. I am sure that your particular gifts give you a unique perspective on the matter.”

“I have read your treatise on spatio-temporal dynamics.” Zul admits begrudgingly. “It is brilliant.”  This is no polite fiction. The queen is gifted with insight beyond that of most trolls. Even Zul’s critical eye could find no fault with her conclusions.

“I am glad to hear you say so! Temporal theory is a notoriously delicate area of research. It is difficult to make progress when anyone who has too many breakthroughs is in danger of being paid a visit by a disgruntled dragon.”

Zul hums with reluctant interest. “I was surprised to see that your pool-of-improbability hypothesis accounted for alternate timeline resonance. Too few trolls acknowledge the importance of events that do _not_ take place. Alternate timeline occurrences can have far-reaching effects.”

“As I’m sure you well know! Perhaps we can discuss this matter in more detail at some point in the future.”

Zul grunts noncommittally. Rastakhan pauses in the process of crunching straight through a bone as though it’s a puff pastry, giving them both a look of fond exasperation. “As pleased as I am to see you two getting along, I do not believe I am sober enough for such an academic conversation. I am going to go see if there is any of that excellent rum left. Have fun, my love.”

Rastakhan plants a kiss on the queen’s cheek and swaggers away, Zolani and Habutu trailing dutifully behind him. Zul watches him leave and grinds his teeth.

An uncomfortable silence stretches long between them. It takes Zul a moment to register that Queen Talanji is now regarding him with an expression suspiciously close to pity. Zul narrows his eyes at her, but finds that he cannot hold her gaze. He turns away.

Zul makes a pretense of scanning the party for signs of trouble, but it is futile. Rastakhan draws his eyes like a magnet. He appears to be in the process of challenging Vol’kal to a drinking contest, loa preserve him. His golden armor, polished to a mirror-like sheen, catches the torchlight and casts dancing flecks of light all around him. He shines like the rising sun.

“Zul.” Queen Talanji’s voice is soft. Zul inwardly bristles at the lack of title.

“My _queen_.” Zul replies pointedly, turning one ear in her direction. He is being outrageously rude. He knows without question that Rastakhan would box his ears if he saw Zul address his wife in such a manner. That thought puts a lump into Zul’s throat.

The queen hesitates. She makes an abortive motion, as if to lay a hand on Zul’s shoulder, and then stills. “...I am sorry. Truly, I am.”

“For what.” Zul does not phrase it as a question. He tears his gaze away from Rastakhan and curls his lip at the queen, nearly challenging her to elaborate.

She does not. She smiles sadly at him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and rises gracefully to her feet.

“He cares for you very much, you know.” The queen speaks kindly, without a hint of condescension. Something about her tone galls Zul to his core. It would have been easier if she had mocked him to his face. It would have been easier if she had struck him outright. At least that would have given him justification for the growl trying to bubble up from the bowels of his chest.

“I believe you should speak with him. If you do, I will not interfere.” she continues. Zul raises his brows, wondering just what, exactly, the queen thinks _that_ will accomplish. “At any rate, I have had more than enough excitement for one evening. When you next see the king you may tell him I have retired for the night.”

Zul notes the way she tactfully avoids saying ‘retired to _our_ chamber’. He watches her as she goes, studiously avoiding considering what activities will soon transpire in that chamber. It is none of his concern.

Zul goes in search of the king.

He finds Rastakhan sprawled across the bottom steps of one of Dazar’alor’s many staircases, disheveled and smelling strongly of drink. He is smoking from a long pipe, and he appears to have misplaced his headdress. This would be a serious breach of decorum on his part if there were any nearby trolls conscious enough to take notice.

Rastakhan’s face lights up as soon as he sees Zul. The _audacity_ of him.

“Zul!” he exclaims, beaming in his insufferably charming way. He stumbles to his feet, stepping unsteadily over a few snoring heaps of troll. Zul reaches him just in time to prevent him from falling over.

“My king.” wheezes Zul, shaking under the strain of supporting a troll nearly twice his own weight. Zul is not cut out for this sort of physical activity. It does not help that Rastakhan feels as though he is leaning against Zul more than is strictly necessary. “Perhaps you should sit down.”

“Why? I am perfectly well!” laughs Rastakhan, swaying where he stands. Zul, with the king’s arm draped heavily over his shoulders, is obliged to sway along with him. He is intensely aware of every single patch of Rastakhan’s warm, bare skin; each place where it makes contact with his own seems to burn Zul like a brand.

There is only so much temptation a troll can endure. Zul takes a deep breath, gathers his magic, and-

_\- seizes Rastakhan by his golden collar and drags his face down to Zul’s level, carefully angling his head in such a way that their tusks do not clack together._

_(Zul has spent more time contemplating the logistics of this maneuver than he cares to admit, even to himself.)_

_The brief awkwardness of positioning is wholly overshadowed by the hot rush of satisfaction he feels when he crushes their lips together. Rastakhan is pliant and yielding against him; it is a testament to Rastakhan’s drunkenness that he has allowed himself to be caught off-guard in this manner. Zul doubts he could have ever managed this if Rastakhan were sober._

_Zul kisses him ravenously, purposefully, like he is rushing to memorize every detail before they are snatched from his grasp. The taste of tobacco and rum. The smell of polished gold and raptor leather. The rough scales of Rastakhan’s chin and the softness of his lips. Zul inhales deeply, savoring the king’s own bodily scent; the sensation of pheromones tingling against his palate blows Zul’s pupils wide and drags an involuntary trill from his throat._

_Zul cuts his lip on Rastakhan’s tooth and does not care. He wants his blood in Rastakhan’s mouth. He wants Rastakhan’s teeth on his neck. He wants Rastakhan to eat him alive._

_It is over far too quickly. Rastakhan jerks back, gasping. A dot of Zul’s blood lingers on his lower lip; the sight of the king’s tongue reflexively flicking it away sears itself into Zul’s memory._

_“Zul! What is the meaning of this?! Are you drunk?” A fine accusation, coming from him._

_Zul stands before the king, panting and defiant. He meets Rastakhan’s accusatory stare with with bared teeth._

_“I knew you first, Rastakhan.” he says, feeling a note of hysteria creep into his voice. “You have made your choice, but don’t you ever forget that I knew you first.”_

Zul snaps back to himself. Rastakhan’s bulk lies heavy and warm against him.

Zul has never felt so weighed down.

“Come, my king.” he says. “Your wife is waiting for you.”


	3. fanatical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zul acquires combat experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello welcome back to pain town
> 
> the docs link to this fic is below if you, like me, find it easier to leave mini-comments as you read:
> 
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/17SxR8K0rX2imSzWT0Hd1kI3OYvH4q2ANl-4nuimRqbk/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> if you see a line that catches your eye you can highlight it, right click, and use the "comment" button! this fic-writing machine runs on validation, baby

The third time Zul uses his powers in this manner, he is desperate.

_Echoing battle-cries, the clash of golden weaponry against spears of wood and bone, the hunting screams of raptors mingled with the unnatural bellows and gurgles of crawgs-_

_Clouds of acrid smoke burning the eyes and noses of the defending Zandalari, blinding the pterrordaxes which would otherwise be providing aerial support, the frantic shouts of the Paku’ai as their mounts careen drunkenly through the air-_

_Nazmani war-mothers safely upwind, fanning their flames and chanting their barbarous war-songs, watching their blood-crazed followers race headlong into the jaws of the blood gate, there are so many, why are there so many, it has been generations since these scattered savages have mustered such a force-_

Zul snaps from his trance, blinking as the pale, grim face of the captain of the northern border patrol slides into focus.

“They are burning piles of noxious herbs just beyond the river delta.” says Zul, his voice low and smoke-roughened. “Merely dousing them will not be sufficient; a shaman must be sent to smother them completely and prevent the residue from contaminating the water supply. The women guarding the fires must also be dealt with. A force of fifteen would be best for this task.”

“Fifteen?” the captain says incredulously, impatiently rubbing tears from her stinging eyes. “I do not know if I have five trolls to spare, Prophet, let alone fifteen! We were prepared for a skirmish, not an assault!”

Zul’s face darkens, but he cannot bring himself to rebuke her. This attack was a possibility so far outside of anyone’s expectations that even Zul’s far-reaching sight was blind to it. Even now his mind is clouded, his vision frustratingly incomplete. What is driving the Nazmani into such a frenzy?

“Reinforcements will be arriving soon; I will warn them to take measures against the smoke. Go now. I will send word if I discover anything else.”

The captain snaps a hasty salute and departs. Zul settles back down against the rough stone floor of the cramped barracks currently serving as his makeshift meditation chamber. A handful of his most trusted acolytes sit alongside him, their brows furrowed in concentration as they struggle to sift through the chaotic tangle of futures writhing all around them. Some of them mutter silently to themselves; others stroke their hands restlessly over a focus object, or press their fingernails hard into their own skin, centering themselves through the pain. Anything to foster a small amount of mental clarity.

Zul once heard Prophet Tal say that battle divination is _like trying to find a speck of gold-dust in a sandstorm._ Zul is now discovering firsthand just how right the old troll was. He settles his hand atop Prophet Tal’s skull where it hangs from his belt, wishing fervently that he possessed even a fraction of his predecessor’s wisdom and experience.

Focus, _focus-_

The deafening crackle of a nearby lightning spell illuminates the room through one of its small windows, briefly painting Zul and his acolytes in blinding shades of white and blue. A few of the acolytes flinch, cursing. The stench of ozone and the tingle of static raises every hair on Zul’s body.

Zul does not see the captain die, but he feels the bright line of her future go dark in his mind’s eye. He shakes his head roughly and barks at one of his guards to go relay Zul’s information to her second in command.

_Focus._

Futures flicker before his eyes faster than he can parse, too many possibilities, too many _variables_ , ripples building upon ripples and how is Zul to know where the wave will break-

The ear-splitting, bone-rattling roar of a devilsaur jars Zul once again from his trance; he nearly bites through his lower lip in frustration. It is a disturbingly familiar roar.

Zul is on his feet immediately, knocking his startled guards aside in his haste to exit the barracks.

He emerges into a scene of sheer chaos. The reinforcements, it seems, have finally arrived. Old K’zlotec, Rastakhan’s favored war-mount, leads the charge, scattering blood trolls with every earth-shaking footfall. Zandalari war-drummers beat a defiant counterpoint to the blood trolls’ monotonous chants, bringing new vigor to the flagging defenders. And Rastakhan - idiotic, infuriating, beautiful Rastakhan - stands proudly atop his beast’s back, raining destruction down upon the screaming masses like an avenging god.

Rastakhan’s magic pulses with such raw power it warps the air around him like heat-haze. With a casual gesture he calls down a bolt of lightning that annihilates blood trolls by the dozens; with a wave of his hand he opens a fissure that swallows a dozen more. The platoon of lesser shaman surrounding him do not even merit comparison. They are as candles before the sun.

Even as Zul’s fists clench with rage, he cannot suppress a thrill of vicious satisfaction. Perhaps this will serve as a much-needed reminder to the Nazmani that the title _God King Rastakhan_ is no empty boast.

Zul recoils with a shout as the devilsaur’s frill blast vaporizes a cluster of blood trolls mere paces from where Zul stands. Zul is forced to inhale the fine mist of their blood, coughing and sputtering with disgust. _Reckless fool!_

This place is a minefield of potentially fatal missteps. Dozens of deaths flash before Zul’s eyes as he surveys the scene before him, each more grisly than the last. He steels himself, stomach still roiling from the filthy taste of Nazmani blood, and _runs._

Zul weaves his way across the battlefield in a complex, wholly improvisational dance, darting and ducking and leaping like a troll possessed. He reflexively maps the trajectory of each charging warrior, each wayward spell, each falling arrow, heedless of the hundreds of trolls shouting and casting and dying all around him. Never before has he experienced such a sublime state of focus. He thinks only of reaching Rastakhan; everything else is just so much _noise._

Reaching K’zlotec’s side seems to simultaneously take an eternity and no time at all. Zul skids to a halt next to the beast’s massive talons, panting, hardly able to believe what he has just done. He can’t seem to stop his hands from shaking.

 _Battlefield divination indeed!_ thinks Zul, feeling a hysterical laugh trying to wriggle its way up from his chest. _What do you think of_ **_that_** _, Old Tal!_

 _I think you are a fool,_ a voice in Zul’s mind helpfully supplies.

“ **RASTAKHAN!** ” roars Zul, his lips curling back in a snarl. It is poor form for him to address the king by his given name where other trolls can hear. Zul finds that he does not particularly care at this moment. “ **WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?** ”

The sight of Rastakhan dismounting K’zlotec and dropping twenty feet to the ground makes Zul’s heart leap into his throat, even as he knows with complete certainty that the king will land with the weightless ease of an alighting pterrordax.

“Zul!” he exclaims, wearing an expression of such guileless concern it makes Zul want to spit venom like a cobra. “You should not be here! Where are your guards?”

“ _I_ should not be here?” Zul hisses, teeth still bared. The king would be well within his rights to strike him for such disrespect, but Rastakhan only looks at him with surprise, as though he can hardly comprehend Zul’s objection to his presence. Oh, Zul wants to _bite him._ “I had this situation well in hand, Rastakhan! There was no need for you to come down here and play soldier!”

Rastakhan’s face hardens. “I will not sit idle while my people are slaughtered on my very doorstep, Zul.”

“Ha! Perhaps you should paint a target on your chest, to make it easier for these savages to fill you full of arrows.” Zul punctuates his words by jabbing his finger brazenly into Rastakhan’s chest. It’s like poking a brick wall. Zul’s hand is going to hurt tomorrow. “Need I remind you, my _king,_ that _you still do not have an heir?_ Do you want to be remembered as the king who ended a dynasty stretching back thousands of years because he wanted to blow up some swamp natives?”

“Ah. I am glad that I can always trust you to focus on the important things, Zul.” says Rastakhan flatly.

The contempt in his voice punctures something inside Zul. Something dark and horrible finds its way in.

 _Did you expect him to consider you, Prophet?_ The poisonous thought rises unbidden in his mind. _Why would he? The fear of widowing his wife was not enough to keep him in the palace; surely the thought of her grief would weigh more heavily on his mind than yours._

Zul abruptly terminates that train of thought, shuddering.

Even now, the temptation of a future that Zul does not deserve glimmers at the edge of his peripheral vision. Zul's selfish hands seize the shining thread and pull it tight.

_Zul grasps Rastakhan’s collar and pulls him down, down, down until he is close enough for Zul to gently touch their foreheads together. He leans against the king, savors his warmth, closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Rastakhan’s expression._

_The gesture is shockingly, inappropriately intimate; it somehow feels like a deeper violation than if Zul had kissed him (again). Any other troll would be executed for taking such a liberty with a member of the royal family. The knowledge that Rastakhan would never execute Zul, that he would tolerate (endure allow abide but never desire, never seek out, never never never-) such a thing from Zul only makes it harder to bear when he feels Rastakhan begin to tense._

_"Do not die." Zul murmurs, hardly caring if Rastakhan hears him. "Do what you must, but do not die. I could not bear it if you died.”_

_Zul looks up just in time to see Rastakhan's eyes widen._

_"Zul-!"_

Reverse.

Zul has a job to do. It is time, as Rastakhan said, for him to _focus on the important things._

“Well.” says Zul, smiling sardonically. The smoke is stinging his eyes. “One of us has to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aand someone just got his first dose of g'huun ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

**Author's Note:**

> shout out to atalzul, amani-outrider, and transvoljin on tumblr for inspiring this! i'm nastykhan on there, feel free to check me out for more troll-related content ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


End file.
